The Weary Kind
by SmithCoronaAndLime
Summary: While surveilling a Rittenhouse agent, Flynn and Wyatt rescue a woman marked for assassination, but learn she has a terrible connection to Flynn – and to Rittenhouse. Despite that, she may be able to help save Rufus, and the team brings her under their protection while Flynn begins to reconcile his past with a possible future.
1. Bang Bang

_**The Weary Kind – Ryan Bingham**_

 _And this ain't no place for the weary kind_  
 _And this ain't no place to lose your mind_  
 _And this ain't no place to fall behind_  
 _Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try_

* * *

 **AN: Listen, before you say anything… I KNOW. I know OCs are generally awful and squeezed in for no reason. I fully support the amazing Garcy stories out there. BUT… But no matter what a phenomenal dumbass he's been, realistically, I do feel Wyatt and Lucy are meant to be. Thus, some Flynn/OC love but I promise I will do my damnedest to make her a fleshed-out, interesting character with great Flynn chemistry.**

 **Also, I obviously do not own Timeless or the characters that appear in it.**

* * *

"Pretzel? Flynn asked, tilting the open bag toward Wyatt in the driver seat next to him. Wyatt Logan, sporting a week's growth of beard and a ratty Atlanta Braves baseball cap, glanced at the bag, then at the frustratingly impassive face of the man who'd spent the better part of a year trying to kill Wyatt and his friends. The same man he'd shared this miserable 1993 Aerostar van with for the last eight days.

" _You_ are taking this way better than you should." Wyatt grumbled, turning his attention back to the apartment complex they were surveilling.

"Suit yourself," Flynn shrugged, taking a handful of pretzels and feeding them into his mouth one by one. He was slouched low in the passenger seat, or low as he could with the seat pushed all the way back and his knees pressed against the faded dashboard. The dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but the irreverent, almost cheerful attitude with which he approached their missions was always unsettling. Moreso when the cnsequences of their current stakeout were so high – and so personal.

It had taken a good long while for Agent Christopher to gain access to the thumb drive that had been seized at Flynn's arrest, and even longer to agree to hand over the information Flynn desired. Six names with shockingly complete dossiers compiled by Ethan Cahill years before. Three had been arrested in the takedown of Rittenhouse, including the corporate lawyer who'd ordered the hit on Flynn's family. One was confirmed dead on a previous mission. One more they'd found weeks ago and captured. The interrogation was ugly – just about everything Flynn did was ugly – but it had begun civilly and eventually rendered valuable information. Wyatt suspected Flynn might even have handed the man over to Homeland Security after the fact, had he not beaten the hell out of him, rendering any possible prosecution null.

In the end, a single, dispassionate shot to the head had been the end of Robert Haver. That humane end, and the relative professionalism of Flynn's interview with the Rittenhouse agent might have suggested the former NSA operative was regaining his humanity. Might.

In the end, Wyatt was torn – glad to have someone so skilled on their side, but incapable to fully believing he'd remain on their side. Then there was Lucy…

"She's back." Flynn commented, setting the open bag of pretzels on the center console and wiping his hands on his jeans before taking the compact binoculars off the dashboard and peering across the street. Wyatt, disturbed from his grim rumination, sat upright and reached for his own binoculars.

They'd been surprised to find, in the course of tailing Charles Tyson, that their target appeared to be surveilling someone else. It had worked to their benefit – Tyson wasn't watching for a tail himself while he surreptitiously followed the mystery woman and her young daughter. However, it had taken three or four cracks to the jaw and threats of further harm (which Flynn laughed off in that disturbing, tightly controlled way of his) for Wyatt to convince Flynn not to go tearing after Tyson immediately and blow their cover.

Wyatt shifted in his seat at the memory, his bruised ribs smarting. Lucy wouldn't be pleased to hear they'd gotten in another dustup. This time, though, Wyatt understood. The man they were following had already murdered one mother and child among an untold number of hits. Watching him pursue this young woman and her five- or six-year-old girl had made even Wyatt's gut twist into tense knots. Still, Wyatt suspected there was something different going on here, and convinced Flynn that if Tyson was surveilling her for a Rittenhouse execution, taking out one man wouldn't stop it. They needed to catch the team.

Peering across the busy street to the open second floor walkway of the shabby apartment complex, Wyatt confirmed the unknown woman was returning to her unit, her daughter carried on one hip and several reusable grocery bags slung over the opposite shoulder. It was late, the sun already beginning to set, and the girl was slumped against her mom's shoulder, dead asleep, while the woman struggled to fish her keys out of her purse and open the door.

Next to him, Garcia Flynn swallowed hard, choking down the conflicting tangle of concern and tenderness he couldn't help feeling at the sight of this little moment of mundane struggle and comfortable bliss. What did Tyson want with them? He'd asked himself more than once, but instinct kept coming around to the same conclusion. They'd called in a request with Christopher to identify the tenant, only to find she paid with cash and leased under the name Dorothy Gale. Flynn knew this was a person in hiding. A person, most likely, hiding from Tyson.

The dossier had listed a spouse, Roxanne Tyson né Oliver. In their search for Charles Tyson, they'd tried to locate her to no avail – which had necessitated the capture and interrogation of his fellow Rittenhouse agent. Flynn knew, in his gut, he was looking at Roxanne Tyson. The little girl was undoubtedly Tyson's daughter, Francesca.

"Flynn," Wyatt said abruptly, "Tyson's on the move."

* * *

Roxanne exhaled a sigh of relief as she finally got the door open and slipped into her darkening apartment. Switching on the entry light, she walked toward the hallway, depositing the bags of groceries on the floor by the kitchenette before carrying Frankie down the hallway toward her room.

Inside the girl's room, she carefully picked her way across a floor littered with stuffed toys and picture books, all formless in the pre-dusk light eking through the lone window. Roxanne knelt slowly by the twin bed and gently shifted her sleeping daughter to the mattress. Frankie sighed and fidgeted a moment, but was too far gone to wake up over so slight a movement. Roxanne gently tugged off the girl's shoes and pulled the comforter – white with large, abstract orange and pink daises – over the sleeping five-year-old.

She knelt there a moment, brushing the dark curly hair away from Frankie's brow. She had perishables in the grocery bags, however, so she stayed only a moment before laying a gentle kiss on her daughter's forehead and tip-toeing away, closing the door gently behind her.

In the kitchen, the refrigerator droned on in a labored whirr while she began to unpack and shelve her chilled goods. It had been a long day cleaning houses ten times nicer than her tiny apartment, and it would be longer still when Mrs. Rollins arrived to sit with Frankie while Roxanne headed to her second shift as a night guard at the Oakland wharf. Once the refrigerator was packed, she opened the cupboard to pull out a tin cup and a bottle of whiskey, pouring herself two fingers and dropping in a couple ice cubes before screwing the cap back on and tucking the bottle back in the cupboard behind boxes of pasta and cereal.

Roxanne took up the camping mug and turned, leaning back against the counter and taking a slow, grateful sip of the rich, subtly spicy liquid. Tingling and silky, she didn't drink often, but she did drink well. This was no rot-gut but rather well-aged sour mash bourbon. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, willing the tension and wariness out of her body. The alcohol would make her drowsy for her graveyard shift, but it was her solace for mouthing off and getting herself fired from yet another cleaning service.

"Honey, I'm home." That voice, a voice she knew in her sleep, reached her ears and a surge of terror froze her in place. Charles.

Slowly, purposefully, her heart rabbiting in her chest and the rush of adrenaline making every audible and tactile sensation twenty times sharper, Roxanne lowered her head and opened her eyes. Sure enough, there he stood in the kitchen doorway, backlit by the entry light while she stood in the darkened kitchen, but just as identifiable by his silhouette as by broad daylight. The realization hit her, then, that she'd forgotten to lock the door while she was carrying Frankie.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, setting the cup on the counter beside her and carefully releasing her death grip from the enameled tin. Charles took a step into the kitchen and her eyes scanned frantically for a way around him.

"What kind of question is that?" he asked, bemused, "I'm here for you. And for my daughter." At those words, the rage broke over her in a consuming heat and Roxanne lunged, knowing there was no way around him but through. She lowered her shoulder, plowing directly into his diaphragm and surprised him just enough to make him stumble backward out of the doorway. Taking advantage of his momentary lack of footing, she planted a knee squarely in his groin and elicited an enraged shout before he fell to the floor.

She lept over his prostrate form, his contorted face and shaved head burning wrathful scarlet in his agony, and made for the hallway – for her bedroom and the 50 caliber Desert Eagle locked up in her night stand. But Charles was viper fast, sparing one hand to take an implacable grip on her ankle, and Roxanne crashed to the floor. Stunned and somewhat winded, she kicked out with her free foot, connecting with his jaw and neck once, twice, and a third time before he finally let go and she clambered to her feet and careened down the hallway.

"Mommy!" she heard Frankie cry from her bedroom.

"STAY WHERE YOU ARE!" Roxanne bellowed, reaching her bedroom and throwing herself to her knees to pull open the night stand. She hoped beyond hope Frankie would listen, would remember their drills and hide in her room. She yanked the plastic case from the drawer and worked on the tumbler lock with trembling but precise fingers, listening for any noise from the living room. The lid snapped open and Roxanne pulled out the heavy firearm and a loaded clip. She heard Charles' hand slap against the hallway wall, supporting himself as he lurched toward her room, cussing out her name. Roxanne inserted the clip and crawled over her bed to the opposite side from the bedroom door. She crouched low, taking cover and chambering a round before carefully releasing the safety.

Just then, Charles lurched against the door jam, one hand still clutching his crotch, and Roxanne eased out her breath before squeezing the trigger.

* * *

 _ **Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) – Nancy Sinatra**_

 _Bang bang. I shot you down_

 _Bang bang. You hit the ground_

 _Bang bang. That awful sound_

 _Bang bang. I used to shoot you down_


	2. Have You Got It In You

**AN: Look, I know he's killed a lot of people, and that's terrible, but can we agree that THAT scene in 1x11 where Flynn guns down two Pinkertons, then slings the shotgun to his shoulder and runs his hand through his hair is by far the most erotic thing ever shown on network television? I want a PornHub channel with nothing but that scene on repeat.**

 **I still don't own Timeless.**

* * *

Flynn and Wyatt had made their way across the bustling street, dodging traffic and earning an ireful chorus of car horns before they reached the parking lot to the apartment complex. Constantly vigilant, they'd moved gradually closer to the stairwell, taking cover behind and between the parked vehicles but it appeared Tyson was alone. No signs of a Rittenhouse strike team.

When they heard a shout – a woman screaming at someone to stay where they were – Flynn drew his weapon and sprinted the last ten yards to the stairwell with Wyatt trying to keep pace in his wake. He took the stairs three-at-a-time and sprinted toward the woman's apartment, barely registering Wyatt's pounding footsteps and hissed profanity. The former Delta Force member was careening after Flynn who had apparently decided to completely disregarded safe tactical approach protocols.

Wyatt was just catching up when an immensely loud shot rang out. Then, at least five seconds later, as Flynn was approaching the second-to-last apartment, a second shot. No silencer, large caliber.

"Flynn!" Wyatt shouted, to no avail. The towering man had disappeared through the door, gun at the ready. "Sonofa…" Wyatt panted as he unholstered his firearm, rounded the open doorway and damn near ran square into Flynn's back. The older man's gun was raised, but he was walking cannily, now, and Wyatt quickly took up scanning and clearing the meager living room they'd entered. Satisfied that no one was waiting behind the door or behind any furniture, he swept forward, taking up a position on Flynn's left and spotting a large, and decidedly masculine, prone form slumped haphazardly agains the hallway wall. Charles Tyson.

"Mrs. Tyson…" Flynn called, strong but calm, "Are you hurt?"

"Who's there?" a woman's voice called, strong but cracking with strain,

"Hey, maybe let me take lead on this," Wyatt muttered before Flynn could answer.

"What?" Flynn hissed, looking at him for the first time since they'd heard that shout and started their sprint for the building.

"Listen, she has to be terrified and you are just… very large and very creepy. Let me talk to her." Wyatt breathed back.

"You damn well better answer," came the woman's voice, firmer this time, and audibly nearer the doorway to the bedroom where she was hiding, "I have rounds to spare." Flynn glanced at Wyatt, unkempt and panting, with clear skepticism. Still, he couldn't deny the other man was far more charming in general and presently calmer than himself. He give a quick, tight nod and stepped to the side to cover the hallway as Wyatt walked slowly forward, gun lowered toward the floor.

"My name is Wyatt Logan, ma'am," he said, his voice steady and warm, but she interrupted.

"There are two of you?" she asked, sounding tense again. Wyatt swallowed – dammit, Flynn.

"Yes, ma'am." He said, gently as he could manage. At the start of the hallway he stopped, leaning against the wall and glancing down at the deathly still Rittenhouse agent. Well, that was one problem taken care of. "We're not here to hurt you, we're here to help."

"Forgive my skepticism," she responded dryly, and Wyatt heard Flynn give a snort of mirth. Psychopath.

"I promise you, we've been tailing this man, and only entered when we saw him approach. Is he your husband?"

"Was," she clarified. "And what business is he of yours?"

"He was a suspect in a criminal conspiracy, ma'am."

"So, you're law enforcement?"

"Not exactly," Wyatt admitted. "We work with some federal agencies, but it's, uh, off the books."

"And who's your friend, Wyatt?" she asked, and Wyatt saw her right arm and shoulder at the bedroom doorway, the aluminum barrel of her gun pointed directly at his heart. Slowly, Wyatt separated his hands, raising his free hand to show her it was empty and the gun hand palm out, his index finger laid straight against the trigger guard. Just one eye, fixed on his center mass, showed in a sliver of her stoic face through the angle of the doorway. She nodded acknowledgement but didn't lower her weapon. Wyatt slowly crouched down and placed his firearm on the floor before standing up again.

"My partner's name," he nearly choked over the word, but it was better than 'friend,' "is Flynn. We're–"

"Flynn?" she interrupted him. Wyatt glanced back at Flynn, who had likewise lowered his weapon but not holstered it. The taller man raised his eyebrows in response, just as surprised as Wyatt by the note of recognition.

"Uh, yes ma'am," Flynn responded, trying to take a cue from Wyatt's gentleman bastard playbook. "Garcia Flynn, I'm–" Before he could finish, the woman stepped clear of the doorway, her weapon now lowered. Wyatt kept his hands up, more than a little annoyed that she'd taken a bead directly on his center mass while Flynn got a pass seemingly on his name alone. Then he saw the look on her face, the shock and knowing in the knit of her brow.

"It's you," she breathed.

* * *

Flynn was damn sure he'd never seen this woman before, and her knowledge of him was at once both suspicious and intriguing. Still, in acknowledgement of their détante, he'd holstered his weapon and raised his hands as she kept her handgun trained on the floor and inched her way nearer. She'd reached a closed door on the opposite side of the hall, just past the body of Charles Tyson, and switched the gun to her left hand, raising it again with a fierce look on her face as she reached for the door knob with her right hand. Flynn nodded, seemingly unperturbed by the 50 cal pointed at his racing heart.

The woman tried the door knob and found it locked. Tapping a simple rhythm – five beats of Row Row Row Your Boat – she called softly, "Sweet pea, it's mom, you can unlock the door for me." A few heartbeats later, the two men heard the tiny click of the lock being released, a sound that would have been imperceptible anywhere outside this stone silent apartment.

Roxanne opened the door and edged cautiously inside, still keeping an eye on both men. Wyatt stepped back a few paces, away from his own gun on the ground, and she slipped fully inside the other bedroom.

"Frankie," they heard her call gently inside the room, "Sweet pea are you hurt?"

"Mommy," the smaller voice was unsure, trembling, but relieved.

"Yes, Frankie, I'm here. It's safe now, you can come out."

"Mommy!" carried the relieved cry followed by muffled keening sounds. Flynn and Wyatt looked to each other, and Flynn turned, his back against one wall, to glance at the still open front door. The crying noises continued, interspersed with unintelligible words and reassurances.

"Ma'am," Flynn said softly, but just loud enough for her to hear in the other room, "Is it alright if I shut the door."

There was a moment of silence and then, "Yes. Please." She had control over her voice, but only just.

"Is your little girl alright?" Flynn asked as he stepped to the door and gently shut it. He caught Wyatt's eye and nodded toward the door; the younger man carefully picked his firearm up and turned out to face the living room and the front door.

"Yes, as well as she can be expected."

"Mrs. Tyson, we–"

"Don't call me that," she replied sternly, and Flynn saw her emerge from the bedroom, her daughter cradled in one arm, a halo of dark auburn curls hiding the tiny face buried in her mom's shoulder. The handgun was still gripped firmly in the woman's left hand.

"My apologies," Flynn said gracefully, "What would you prefer?"

"My maiden name is Oliver," she said, then considered him a moment, "You can call me Roxanne." Wyatt shot a disbelieving glance at Flynn, who ignored him, and shook his head.

"Alright, Roxanne," Flynn nodded, "What do you need to get out of here tonight?" She understood, but considered him warily as she tightened her grip on Frankie.

"We won't take you anywhere you don't want to go, and we can call a cab if you like, but it's not safe to stay here tonight."

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Looking for him," Flynn nodded at very dead elephant in the room.

"You know, then." She said, her look boring holes into the depths of his soul. He understood.

"Yes, I know," he said, and the flash of pain in her eyes was obvious as a changing traffic signal, "It's not your fault." He still didn't understand how she knew, or how she knew him, but he knew somehow she wasn't one of them. She wasn't Rittenhouse. He swallowed hard before continuing.

"Is that why you're hiding? You found out what he was?" Flynn asked, and she nodded once, adjusting her grip on the gun hanging at her side. "You can't stay here. If he knows, they know, and they'll find you." Turning reluctantly, Roxanne looked down at Charles Tyson's body and closed her eyes, working hard to compose herself.

"I have nowhere else," she whispered. "It took so long–" Her voice gave out.

"I know," Flynn said, and he did. Wiping yourself off the map took time and resources. "We can help you, if you want. I promise, we won't harm you, or your daughter. If you want you can point that ridiculously large gun at my head the entire time I'm driving." He said that last with a sideways grin, but complete sincerity.

"Flynn, where are we going–"

"We'll figure it out, Wyatt," Flynn cut him off. Roxanne Oliver glanced from him to Wyatt's turned back and then to Flynn once more.

"How much time do we have?"

* * *

 _ **Have You Got It In You – Imogen Heap**_

 _Been one of those days,_

 _Safety first don't push (don't push me),_

 _What's the hurry?_

 _'Cause there's one nerve remaining,_

 _Waiting on one look (one look), have you got it?_

 _Have you got it in you?_


	3. Ride

**AN: It is a truth universally acknowledged that anyone living in a top secret bunker does not simply drive straight to that bunker after fleeing the scene of a murder.**

 **I don't own Timeless or Pride and Prejudice.**

* * *

Flynn glanced in the rearview mirror for the umpteenth time. Frankie was asleep, sacked out in her car seat, while Roxanne gazed down at her, one arm slung over the seat back. She still held the gun, but resting on her knee, and glad as he was she hadn't taken him up on his offer, he suspected her ease was more a result of resignation than trust. She had nowhere else to go, and no matter how well she handled that firearm – and she did – she had to have recognized Flynn and Wyatt were far better.

She'd just barely gotten the drop on Tyson, one shot through his shoulder and the other clean through his heart. Given the time lag between shots, he guessed she'd tagged his shoulder first and finished the job after he fell. At that range, and steadied by the bed she'd taken cover behind, she was good, but Flynn would have plugged the son-of-a-bitch between the eyes given the same circumstances. He suspected she had some tactical training, enough to recognize when she was outmanned. Her decision to go with them had been desperate, a pragmatic calculus of her shitty options. He'd been careful as possible to make her feel safe – comforting without pandering. It was one of the rare situations Flynn's more uncouth manners trumped Wyatt's charm.

That was why Flynn was currently driving her beat up '90s era Jeep Cherokee while following Wyatt in the Aerostar. The two men had rushed to get as much loaded in the van and the SUV as they could grab – thankfully, the police didn't respond all too quickly to calls in that neighborhood. Still, never in the history of mankind had two adults managed to pack up all the necessities required for any kid in so short a time. Roxanne, clearly prepared for the possibility of needing a rapid escape, had bug-out bags ready for both of them, but without a Rittenhouse team imminent, Flynn and Wyatt had grabbed whatever they could shove into spare suitcases and trash bags. It wasn't everything, not by a log shot, but it was enough to give them a more solid footing somewhere new.

And that was a fresh problem, Flynn mused as they drove to the bunker. They'd gotten Roxanne and Frankie out of the apartment, but there was hardly enough space for the standing team, never mind two new additions. Additionally, Wyatt had been quick to remind him the dangers of inviting new people into the bunker. Flynn had just barely restrained the instinct to viciously upbraid the hypocrite, but he'd managed to express in no uncertain terms his determination to get these two to a safe place without starting an argument and escalating the terror and tension their new charges must be feeling.

Flynn took another look in the rearview, letting his gaze linger a little longer over the clearly wrung out woman watching her child sleep. She looked up unexpectedly, meeting his glance and his eyes darted back to the dark road and the tail lights ahead of them.

"How did you know where he was?" she asked softly. Flynn was silent a moment, considering what to tell her. They still hadn't explained who they were. She'd be in for a hell of a shock

"How much do you know about what your– what Tyson was involved in?" he asked instead.

"Not much. I thought he was a branch president for Kline Porterhouse."

"The real estate developer?"

"Yeah. We'd moved to Bethesda for his job, a promotion from vice president in Shreveport. I had just…" she hesitated, swallowed, "I had just quit my job and we were ready to start over."

"How long before you suspected something?" he asked, trying his best to sound more like a confidant and less like an NSA agent. There was no immediate response, and he didn't press her.

"I didn't," she said finally, her voice wavering, "I thought he was having an affair." Flynn closed his eyes a moment in recognition. Of course. No one would think to suspect the truth, not in a million years. That their spouse was a hired gun for some shadowy terroristic cult. She continued, "All those late nights, coming home in the morning freshly showered. I started monitoring his email. It was harder to do than I thought but I had been– I had more training than most. I saw emails from someone, I couldn't tell if it was a man or woman, with dates and times and locations. They matched the times he'd been out so late, most of them."

"Did you ever–" Flynn paused. He'd had experience with how well people initially responded to this information, and he tried for a casual air. "Did you ever see the name Rittenhouse?" He chanced another look in the mirror to see her shake her head.

"No, the email accounts were anonymized. I didn't know how to dig any deeper into the meta data," she explained. Flynn was somewhat relieved. Maybe there was a chance she could escape after all, stop hiding now that Tyson was dead. Then again, she'd known enough to run away, hadn't she? "Is that who he was working for?"

"Yes," Flynn said. They were both silent for several minutes before he spoke again, "How did you find out?" He feared he already knew, the suspicion sitting in the pit of his stomach like brick.

"I, uh," she began, darting a glance to the man sitting in front of her, driving them god-knows-where. "I followed him one night." There it was, the truth of it. She knew Flynn because she'd seen him, if only on the news, and unlike the reporters, she'd known he didn't do it.

"To Baltimore," Flynn replied. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," she breathed, "Mr. Flynn, I'm so sorry. I had no–" Flynn was already shaking his head, sweating hands gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline.

"It's not your fault" he insisted, his voice gravely, tears that hadn't visited him in more than two years suddenly welling up and threatening to break free. He cleared is throat, "It's not your fault, you never could have known."

"How could he do it?" she continued, "How could anyone…" Flynn saw her in the mirror, eyes squeezed shut and her free hand over her mouth. Tears were streaming down her face. He had no answer for that. After a minute, she regained enough composure to speak again. "I didn't even know right away what happened. I was parked across the street and I heard – sounds, what I later realized must have been silencer shots. I saw– I saw someone come running out of the house and I sat as still as I could. I knew it wasn't Charles, he'd gone in in tactical gear, and I didn't know if the person he was after... I just saw a man trying car door handles, frantically, all along the street and coming closer to me. I was paralyzed but finally he gave up and broke a window with his elbow, the car right in front of me."

She drew a deep breath, and Flynn didn't speak – couldn't speak through the lump in his throat and the tears distorting his vision – the old wound suddenly ripped freshly open and throbbing like it happened only moments ago, like he was still there on that residential street frantically running from car to car in a grieving rage.

Finally, she corrected herself, "You started the car and drove away. I saw Charles and the others – four others – come back out and get in the two Suburbans they'd arrived in and I watched them take off after you. I still didn't know what to do, what had gone on. Maybe you were a terrorist or a drug dealer, I– I let myself calm down and then I left. I went to pick up Frankie. I'd asked a friend to watch her, a friend who knew what I suspected. I told her what I saw, but I was confused. I was prepared to confront him, and his mistress, but not this. I entertained the notion he was a secret agent – James Bond saving the world." She laughed at that, a dry, sardonic chuckle. "I didn't want to jump to conclusions."

"What changed your mind?" Flynn barely got the words out.

"The news. I went home that night with Frankie and tried to act as normal as possible. Charles never noticed anything was wrong. He usually didn't which is why–" Roxanne cleared her throat, "Which is why an affair didn't seem outside the realm of possibility. The next day I saw the report of a double homicide on the evening news. I knew the neighborhood, I'd just been there, and when I saw your photo and your wife and daughter's…" She was silent, then, and Flynn was speechless.

"I knew, immediately, what he'd done." She said finally, "I listened to the news report and barely stopped myself from losing it, from running from the room, from screaming at Charles that he was a liar and a murderer while he sat there sipping his damn Corona. I was disgusted and angry and… and terrified. He murdered an innocent woman and a child. Even if he didn't pull the trigger, he… I kept it together. I acted like everything was fine and went to bed that night. I couldn't sleep more than ten minutes at a stretch with him lying next to me. In the morning, I started planning to leave. I had some money stashed away and I drew as much cash as I could from our accounts. I didn't have the connections for a false ID, but I knew more-or-less how to stay off the official radar. Frankie was only 16 months old, and I was so thankful she wouldn't remember him. By the time he got home from work, we were gone."

"You did well," Flynn commented. She'd evaded him for four years, no mean feat when the full resources of Rittenhouse were at her estranged husband's disposal. But the outlook was grim. She'd left immediately after the hit, no explanation. It was the right thing to do, but he knew damn well Rittenhouse wouldn't have missed it. Even if she didn't know their name, she was a witness to an assassination they went to great lengths to pin on him. He'd counted at least a dozen shots after his wife and daughter were killed. Not even the most inept police department would look at that evidence and conclude Flynn was the only one there that night.

There was no doubt in his mind Tyson had tracked her down to kill her, and take back his child, on Rittenhouse's order.

"Not well enough," she choked out. "We made it to Terre Haute before I caught a news report from home. Rachel, my friend Rachel, the one who kept Frankie for me that night, she was killed in a mugging."

* * *

 _ **Ride – Lana Del Rey**_

 _I hear the birds on the summer breeze_

 _I drive fast, I am alone at midnight_

 _Been trying hard not to get into trouble_

 _But I, I've got a war in my mind_

 _So, I just ride, just ride_

 _I just ride, I just ride_


	4. Daughters

**AN: This is 110% emotional manipulation, and I'm not sorry.**

 **I don't own Timeless, NBC, the idea of time travel, or a garlic press.**

* * *

They pulled up to the black site at half-past three. Wyatt had called ahead and Agent Christopher, impeccably dressed and somehow showing no fatigue for the early hour, was waiting with a small cohort of hand-picked agents. While he absolutely agreed with the necessity of getting the woman and her daughter away form Rittenhouse, he wasn't in favor of letting any unknown entities into the bunker.

Wyatt parked and got out of the van, approaching Christopher with a tired smile. He'd make his concerns known before Flynn had a chance to bowl through the protocols like he always did.

Flynn pulled up behind the surveillance van, cutting the engine and turning to hand the keys over to Roxanne. He was amazed she was still awake, and as she reached for the keys, a strong part of him wanted to take hold of her hand and squeeze it. To reassure her of her safety. Instead, warm fingers grazed his palm, and he caught her eyes just a moment in the scant light. She looked as secure in the situation a she was likely to be at this point, and all he could do was remain solid and matter-of-fact with her. Excessive solicitousness would only set her on edge.

"I need to check in with the boss," he said quietly, her daughter was still fast asleep, "You can stay here with her if you like and then we'll get you inside." Roxanne nodded, alert but exhausted. Flynn got out of the vehicle and walked past the van, glancing back only once, to meet with Wyatt and Agent Christopher. They were conversing in the harsh glow of the vehicle's headlights, and Christopher nodded acknowledgement when she saw him.

"Flynn," she addressed him with a nod, "I hear you've brought visitors." Her tone was curious but skeptical.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied with a subtly sardonic edge. He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward on the balls of his feet. "I thought we could earn a little extra money Air BnB'ing the sofa. Mason's coffers aren't what they used to be."

"Cute," she responded dryly.

"I thought so,"

"Wyatt's given me the overview, Tyson's dead?"

"Yes."

"That's inconvenient."

"Yes, well, better him than his wife and child," Flynn's tone was flippant, but more cutting than even he'd intended. Christopher regarded him, her face softening.

"I agree," she said more gently, "But it still leaves us without an opportunity to interrogate him. Has she been secured?"

"Define secured."

"She's packing a 50 cal Desert Eagle," Wyatt supplied, and Flynn cut him a withering look.

"She'll need to be disarmed," Agent Christopher said.

"Mmm-no," Flynn answered.

"This isn't negotiable, Flynn, she's–"

"I agree," Flynn interrupted Christopher cheerfully, "It isn't negotiable. She stays armed."

"She's safe here, she doesn't need it," Wyatt argued.

"She doesn't know that," Flynn said.

"She's a security risk," he insisted.

"And _you're_ the expert on that?"

"Flynn!" Christopher scolded before Wyatt had a chance to respond, "Enough, both of you. No one enters this bunker armed without background clearance."

"Jessica came in unarmed and left with Wyatt's gun."

"I said enough."

"No, not enough," Flynn snapped, all pretense of irreverence gone, "We've been surveilling her for days, and so had Tyson before she shot the bastard, so if Rittenhouse choreographed this whole scenario to trap us, she could have just as easily missed and allowed him to flee down the fire escape. They didn't have to sacrifice an agent they've been utilizing for over a decade. When we arrived she was damn ready to shoot Wyatt, as well, but even he felt confident enough at the time to lay his weapon on the ground."

Flynn honestly hadn't considered any of this, not even on the circuitous, five-hour drive to the bunker. His instinct said she was clean, and he hadn't interrogated the thought in any great detail until he was put on the spot. He was constantly amazed with how rapidly his mind put things together when his dander was well and properly up. For her part, Christopher looked compelled, but not entirely convinced.

"Listen," Flynn growled, "If she's Rittenhouse, if she's that good, nothing will prevent her getting a weapon once she's inside. But she isn't, and I'd stake my goddamn life on it. She's been on the run from these psychopaths for four years. She's terrified and alone and protecting her child. If you disarm her I swear to you I'll hand her my own gun the moment she's inside."

"This is ridiculous," Wyatt breathed, and Flynn ground his teeth, resisting the urge to clock the arrogant son of a bitch. Christopher regarded them carefully – she respected, however grudgingly, Flynn's advocacy and Wyatt's skepticism. Still, she had to balance two competing possibilities – that Wyatt's suspicions were informed more by his own humiliation and guilt than an objective assessment of the situation, and that Flynn's instinct on this particular matter was colored by the loss of his own family.

"She can keep the gun. We don't tell her about the time machine," she said finally, "And she'll need to be debriefed first thing tomorrow." Ultimately, she was inclined to believe in the woman's innocence and Flynn's instinct on the matter. She resented Flynn undermining her like this, rendering any decision she made on the matter null, but not once in 38 years of service had she allowed her ego to get in the way of the job.

"It's damn near four in the morning," Flynn reminded.

"Fine, then, noon," Christopher acquiesced.

"Well, where are we going to put them?" Wyatt asked, resigned.

"They'll take my bunk," Flynn said, "I'll sleep in the infirmary."

* * *

When Frankie Oliver wrapped her arms around his neck, reluctantly at first, Flynn's heart had melted damn near to the evaporation point. He'd informed Roxanne the only access to the bunker was a ladder, and offered to carry the exhausted child down. They woke her up, and Roxanne did her best to explain the situation to her daughter. Fortunately, young children never really find anything unusual in a world that's still so new to them, and the girl was nonplussed with the news they'd be sleeping underground. If anything, she'd probably think this all was a wonderful adventure come morning, like living in a reverse tree-house.

Flynn had taken a moment to greet her once she awoke. To let her talk to him and interrogate him before explaining they'd need to climb down a ladder and asking if she'd let him carry her. She'd been cautious, clearly unused to men in general, but emboldened by her mom's calm reassurances. Finally, she'd reached her arms out to him, ready to be lifted from her car seat, and he'd swallowed a lump in his throat before tucking her close to his chest, telling her to hang on as tightly as she possibly could. Her mom had then started down the ladder first, the handgun tucked in the waste-band of her black slacks, and Flynn had followed with the Frankie's unruly mop of curls tickling his face and her tiny arms clutched tight around his neck.

While Flynn and Roxanne had been waking up her daughter, Wyatt and the handful of guards had unloaded the vehicles and lowered the girls' things down by rope. Modest piles of their suitcases and filled trash bags greeted them when they made it to the bottom, and Roxanne started grabbing what she could.

"I'll come back for those," Flynn offered, but she shook her head with a faint tilt of a smile.

"The suitcases are on wheels, my dude, I promise I won't get the vapors," she insisted, ending with a truly horrific turn at a southern accent.

"Fair enough," he smiled back, wanting to encourage this brief moment of ease, "Miss Frankie, we're all done with the ladder. Would you like to get down?" He spoke into the mess of curls just below his chin, but the girl shook her head and strengthened her grip. "OK, you can just stay right there," he said, barely keeping the emotion out of his voice. This kid was wrenching his heart in her stubborn little hands – and he wasn't entirely mad about it.

* * *

Roxanne was wrung out in a way she hadn't been in years, and while it hadn't broken, yet, she knew a good long cry was coming. Flynn led the way down the corridor, carrying her daughter like she weighed nothing at all. He pointed straight ahead as they made to turn right, explaining the kitchen and sitting area was just down the main hall and they were headed for the bunk rooms. Eventually, Frankie had raised her head, peeking over the man's shoulder with those deep blue eyes and loosening one hand to wave back at her mom. Roxanne choked back what she wasn't sure was a laugh or a cry and waved back with the strongest smile she could muster.

The rusted, echoing passageways were more than a little disconcerting. She could almost feel the chill of the concrete floor through her worn flats, and she shivered from the ambient chill and delayed shock. Along the way, Flynn pointed out the door to the shared bathroom – wouldn't that just be fun – and rattled off an overview of bathroom etiquette. A chair was involved. She did notice, however, that he made a point of mentioning other women living in the facility, and she was grateful for his foresight. She was cautiously grateful for rather a lot tonight, actually.

Finally, they reached a heavy metal door that Flynn opened with a firm pull and motioned her inside. The room was small, sparely furnished with a low, utilitarian single bed against one wall, a couple tables and file cabinets and a heavily worn reception chair dating from, she guessed, the Nixon administration. There were some books and miscellaneous conveniences on some of the surfaces, but few enough she wondered if this was an occupied room or not. She was surrounded by four steel walls bearing continental patches of rust and scant remainders of paint, lit by a single incandescent bulb. It was grim relief after a hell of a night, but relief nonetheless.

"It's not much," Flynn commented, clearly reading the lay of her thoughts, "But it's secure and 90% tetanus-free."

It might have been the most mediocre joke she'd ever heard and Roxanne was just fragile enough for that to be exceptionally goddamn funny. It started with an abrupt snort of giggles before cascading into full, tear-streaming, red-faced belly-laughs. She backed herself onto the bad and collapsed to a seated position, her own manic laughter compounding on its self-aware absurdity and making her laugh all the harder until she tipped sideways in silent, windless gasps that evolved to earnest tears.

Flynn understood, intimately, that frantic, end-of-your-rope hysteria. That grieving, wounded place where the most inane thing could start you laughing until you collapsed into a sobbing mess. He still didn't have a damn clue what to do about it. The child, hearing her mother's laughter followed by these new, wracking sobs, started squirming in his arms, and Flynn quickly knelt down to let her go. She made straight for the bedside, starting to climb up before the woman noticed, pushing the mousy blonde hair out of her own eyes and reaching out to pull the girl up and wrap her in a desperate, tear-soaked hug. For a moment, the two clung to one another, curled together on that desolate little army bed, Roxanne pressing frantic kisses all along her daughter's forehead.

Flynn knew enough to give them their privacy, exiting his room and swinging the door not-quite closed, lest they feel imprisoned. He took his time returning to the entry to retrieve the last of their belongings, smiling grimly to himself at the sight of Frankie's Wonder Woman backpack. He carried everything back to his room, laying them just outside the door and pausing a moment to listen. The weeping had stopped, but he could still hear a sniffle or two and he knocked quietly on the door. A loud sniff and squeak of ancient bed springs preceded the gradual opening of the door.

She'd done her best in those seconds, clearly, to compose herself, and she held herself with a surprising degree of poise in light of the situation. Still, her face was a puffy, mottled red spreading outward from her nose and her brown eyes were bloodshot behind red-rimmed eyelids.

"I didn't want to disturb you," Flynn said, casually, "But I didn't think you wanted your things sitting out in the hallway overnight. Frankly, Logan can't be trusted." She smiled faintly at his joke and opened the door wider.

"Of course, thank you," she said.

"Don't mention it." Flynn carried the handful of bags inside, stacking them as neatly as he could manage in what little space there was. Frankie, he noted, was already fast asleep.

"This is your room, isn't it?" Roxanne asked. His back still turned, he smiled to himself at her perceptiveness, and made up his mind to do something that would no doubt earn him a reprimand. That was always fun.

"It is," he said, matter-of-factly, as he turned around, "But it's no inconvenience. I can bunk in the infirmary and tomorrow– tomorrow the boss will want to speak with you."

"Right," she acknowledged.

"I'm not… supposed to say anything, but I suspect she, Agent Christopher that is, will want to discuss more than just last night." Roxane thought that over for a beat, then nodded with a rueful turn of her lips, so Flynn continued, "I know how difficult it is to remember things that happened years ago, to put it all in order, and I thought if you knew, if you were at least a little prepared, it might be a little easier."

"Do you you do this for every woman you kidnap?" she asked, but thought better of it almost immediately, "I'm sorry– I…"

"Don't be." Flynn said firmly, "I would say much worse in your position." He didn't answer her question. Not only because he was more likely to kill than to capture, but because he wouldn't have warned anyone else about a potential debriefing (mostly for the fun of it, if he was being honest), and he didn't care to examine the reasoning behind that.

"Good point," she acquiesced, glancing to the bed and rubbing a hand over her aching lower back before noticing the gun still tucked there. "Still," she said, drawing the gun and removing the clip before setting it on the table and crouching down to open one of the bags on the floor, "As kidnappings go this hasn't been the _worst_."

"Don't tell my supervisor," Flynn said as he watched her pull a gun case out and open it. She shook her head at his joke and he thought maybe he heard a hint of a breath of what almost might be a chuckle. She was just closing the case, and Flynn opened his mouth to take his leave when she paused and looked up at him.

"You know, I might have something that could help."

"Help?"

"For tomorrow," she explained, finishing locking up the case before rifling through the pile of bags. "I kept a journal, after we left. Partly therapeutic and partly, well, to keep track of all the lying. Anyway, it includes every place we went and– and all the names I've used. Sometimes I mention people we knew. I suppose I can't be in any greater danger for anyone knowing where I'm not, anymore." She found the bag she was looking for, it appeared to be her handbag, and she pulled out a pale leather-bound journal with a map of the world printed all across the front and back cover. Standing up, she looked at it a moment, biting her lip, before handing it over.

Flynn was more than a little thunder-struck at the coincidence of it. He contained his shock long enough to take the diary.

"Of course," he said, "Uh, the debriefing is at noon and I'll make sure Agent Christopher receives this." He gave a small, forced smile. "I, uh, I'll leave you to your sleep. The infirmary is just down the hall and around the corner. First door on the right, if– if you need anything." He didn't wait for a response, but left the room as gracefully as he could manage, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

 ** _Daughters – Lissie_**

 _Fierce as fire, sweet as fruit_

 _Not easily defined, not following suit_

 _In a world that's run on pride and force_

 _Women of the world, we have a voice_


	5. Liability

**AN: I don't go out of my way to find plot holes, but seriously how the hell does Flynn find clothes in the past that fit him?! And calling a random plumber in 1969 – NO. There is no fucking way those coveralls fit him. He would have looked like he was preparing for a flood. It's as much bullshit as nobody recognizing Clark Kent is Superman because he slouches a bit and wears glasses.**

 **I don't own Timeless, but all my plot holes are my own.**

* * *

Agent Christopher had arrived, promptly, at noon to debrief Roxanne, and by 5:00 in the evening, Flynn was antsy. Lucy had gamely agreed to help him watch Frankie after Roxanne had emerged for a quick bite just before Christopher's arrival. The whole bunker had known, of course, long before seeing Flynn that morning about the new arrival. Jiya, for her part, didn't much care – she'd been working on modifications to the lifeboat nearly around the clock with Mason her eager, though increasingly concerned, assistant.

Actually, Flynn wasn't 100% positive she wasn't working literally around the clock and was only inches away from searching her room for amphetamines. Until he reminded himself he didn't care. But still.

Lucy had cornered him at the coffee maker fist thing that morning, much to Wyatt's ire. The fact was, of course, that Wyatt hadn't spoken much to their "prisoner" and thus it was his own damn fault for making himself useless to Lucy's rabid curiosity. Flynn had shared what he felt comfortable sharing, though she clearly knew he was holding back, and Lucy was nearly beside herself with anticipation until Roxanne had tentatively entered the common area, carrying what appeared to be an actual, for-real Muppet.

Frankie's wickedly curling hair was frizzed and molded in every direction but the right one. She was in Wonder Woman pajamas and carried a plush llama under one arm with her head laying lazily on Roxanne's shoulder. Mom looked somewhat more composed – showered and dressed in jeans and black sweater – but equally as tired. Flynn thought, instantly, to relieve her of the weighty charge, but thought the last thing she needed at meeting a room full of strangers was for someone to waltz up and take her kid as if they knew her.

"Good morning," Lucy said brightly, "I mean, it _is_ technically still morning. I'm sorry, I'm Lucy, Lucy Preston." She stepped forward to shake hands, but Roxanne had her hands full with a groggy child who refused to use both hands to hang on.

"Sorry," she demurred, "I don't think I've had to carry her as much in the last 24 months as I have in the last 24 hours. I'm Roxanne. Oliver. And this is Frankie."

"Oh my goodness, Frankie?" Lucy sighed, looking wistfully at the bashful face and mop of unruly auburn hair.

"Well, Francesca," Roxanne explained, moving closer into the room to find a place to sit. Flynn made a move to get up, but Lucy was on it, pulling out a chair for the other woman to sit at the table. "Her father hated that I called her Frankie and even if I didn't like it so much I'd have kept it up just to spite him." Suddenly, she cringed, "I'm sorry, that was random and petty and I am just…"

"No, no no. We fully support petty around here. Reward it, actually," Lucy interrupted. "And I agree that is just a wonderful name."

Flynn was a little taken aback at Lucy's uncharacteristically solicitous greeting, but as he watched her make tea for both of them, making small talk before sitting down next to Roxanne, he came to realize just how alone she must be feeling. Her mother had been killed, and she couldn't even grieve the woman properly when her last words to Lucy had been regret over not indoctrinating her sooner. Jiya had all but vanished into her work since the forward-time team had left; and while Denise was closer to Lucy than anyone else in the bunker, she was still the boss, and she went home to her family each night. Flynn cared deeply for Lucy, but no matter what he said, he could never take the place of close female friendship. Then there was Wyatt.

The mission to get Rufus back weighed on all of them and Lucy needed a friendship that wasn't so fraught – a blank slate. That this new, unexpected guest was a woman had to be both irresistible and tense – Lucy wanted to make a good impression. The trouble was, of course, Roxanne wouldn't be staying. They didn't have the space, and while she definitely needed protection from Rittenhouse, bringing her into the fold would only raise her profile with those wackadoos. Never mind she had a child to raise.

Taking a grim sip of his coffee, Flynn set his mind to have a talk with Lucy once the debriefing began.

* * *

By 12:30, Frankie was sacked out on the sofa next to Lucy. They'd been watching old Merry Melodies cartoons, but the kid hadn't lasted long. Flynn had situated himself at one of the dining tables, reading, but when Lucy got up to wash her tea mug, Flynn set the book down.

"So, what do you think of our guest?" he asked,

"She seems nice," Lucy shrugged, "I mean, it is a little unorthodox, but when are you not?"

"Thank you," he replied, and she laughed. "I just noticed you were very curious about her."

"Well, of course," she allowed, sitting down at an adjacent chair, "I mean, she was targeted by Rittenhouse, she's unknown and we haven't had anyone new here since–" she faltered. Since Jessica, Flynn concluded in his head.

"And you could use a friend," Flynn supplied, gently. He leaned forward and took her hand in his, "Now that Jiya's– _busy_ and Rufus…"

"Look, I know what you're getting at," Lucy said, straightening her posture and patting his hand on hers reassuringly, "I'm fine, I'm just curious and I want– I want her to feel welcome. You know, assuming she's not a spy." That last was said with some mirth, but it weighed heavy between them. How much did she trust his judgment on this, really? How much did he?

"All I'm saying is, I know this is a bad time for you. And I just," he paused, squeezing her hand just a little tighter, "She won't be staying here. If Rittenhouse is after her, Christopher will find a way to protect her, but not here. Bringing her in, exposing her to this, only makes her a bigger target. And this isn't a place to raise a child." Lucy glanced over at the sitting area where Frankie lay sleeping.

"Poor thing," Lucy breathed, still not removing her hand from his. "Both of them, they've been through so much." It was on-brand Lucy, thinking of others even when her whole world had altered irrevocably. Still, Flynn suspected the subject of their conversation wouldn't have cared for anyone's pity.

"They deserve a normal life," he agreed. "The little one must just be about ready to start preschool."

"I mean, I _am_ a very good teacher."

"Don't try to turn her into the weird, fallout shelter homeschool kid, Lucy." Lucy laughed outright at that, the sober bent of their conversation broken. Just then, Wyatt walked into the kitchen, fresh out of the gym. He took in the sight of them; seated together at the table, laughing at some private joke with hands clasped; and shot Flynn a murderous look.

"What's for lunch?" he asked gruffly. Lucy pulled her hand away from Flynn's, much to his disappointment, and beamed at Wyatt.

"Whatever you're able to cook," she pointed out, "So, peanut butter and jelly, again?"

"I'll have you know, I was the best cook in Delta Force during wilderness survival training," Wyatt assured as he opened the refrigerator, clearly pleased to have drawn her attention.

"Is that a compliment?" Lucy turned to Flynn. Arms crossed, he shook his head gravely and mouthed a 'no.'

"So, what's the word on our, uh, 'guest?'" Wyatt asked, setting cold-cuts and condiments on the counter.

* * *

Wyatt's question wouldn't be answered until 6:30 that evening. Frankie had finally woken up, energized and curious, and Lucy, Flynn and Wyatt had done their best to keep her entertained with cartoons and coloring and paper airplanes, but had drawn the line at hide-and-go-seek. In the interim, Flynn had cornered Wyatt to ask if he'd secured his weapon, what with their being a child in the bunker, and the shorter man had given him that mutinous, icy blue glare and assured Flynn he wasn't an amateur. Still, not long after, Wyatt had left the common area, returning a few minutes later looking purposefully nonchalant.

When Agent Christopher walked in the room, they were all seated to dinner – an extremely rare occurrence – with the tables pushed together into one long row. Well, everyone except Jiya and Connor, the latter of whom had joined them for a few minutes, obviously curious about their temporary roommates, before he was called away again by Jiya. He'd taken his plate with him, though Flynn doubted he'd get a bite in.

"Good, you're all here," she said, before spotting Frankie, whose large, dark-blue eyes gazed up at her while she nibbled on a piece of garlic toast too big for her face. Agent Christopher softened. "Ah, hello there. I see we have a dinner guest," she greeted warmly, approaching the table. "My name is Denise, what's yours?" She knew, of course, but she wanted the little girl to feel comfortable, welcome.

"Frankie Patricia Oliver," she said, setting aside the garlic toast, "But when my mom's mad she calls me Francesca." The table, having heard this spiel already, chuckled. Earlier, they'd all barely contained their laughter, not wanting to hurt the little girl's feelings as she'd said it with all seriousness. To be fair, not one of them could think of a better description for one's given name than their 'gettin-yelled-at' name. Agent Christopher wasn't so controlled this time and burst out laughing. It was strange seeing their always-composed boss laugh like this, but for everyone at the table except Lucy, it was also strange to see this soft, familial side of her.

"It's very nice to meet you, Frankie," Christopher smiled, then returned her attention to the gathered team, sobering up. "When you're finished, could you bring Frankie to see her mom – she's in Flynn's bunk. Then, Lucy, gather everyone, here – everyone." She looked purposefully beyond them to the control pad and lifeboat where Jiya and Connor were working in dead silence. "I need to discuss something with you."

* * *

"She's not Rittenhouse," Christoper confirmed, and Flynn didn't know until now how worried he'd really been until he felt a profound lightening in his chest. He'd doubted himself enough over the last four years, and his mis-read of Emma may have weighed on him more than he cared to admit. "We're still waiting on some deep-dive searches of her background, but I'm confident they'll come up clean."

"That's good," Lucy said, and Flynn could tell by her tone that, despite his warning, some small part of her held out hope this news meant Roxanne would be staying. That she might have a chance to foster a new friendship.

"Yes, it's very good," Christopher agreed, "But there's more. Roxanne Oliver was most recently a victim advocate in Washington D.C., and before that, she completed police academy training in Louisiana and served with the Shreveport police department for little over a year. But, out of high school, she was an ROTC student and later served in the army… as a combat trauma nurse." The room was silent, stunned as they processed the news. Flynn caught on in half a beat.

"No," he said simply.

"We have to consider it," Christopher said, and as Flynn shook his head and opened his mouth, she cut him off. "We have been looking for a qualified trauma nurse for eight months. The few candidates who got clearance, you all decided against because they had families, because you wouldn't risk Rittenhouse destroying their lives. Now, I admire that, and I agree with you, but…"

" _She_ has a family," Flynn interjected, standing up from leaning casually against the back of the couch. "She and her little girl deserve a normal life." It was the second time he'd had to say it today, and he felt a little like he was simultaneously going mad and the only sane person in the room.

"They're not going to have one," Christopher insisted, and the matter-of-fact way she said it silenced Flynn's protest. Christopher took a breath before continuing. "I put surveillance on her apartment, a couple of men I trust. The police detective overseeing the investigation of the shooting is confirmed Rittenhouse. She killed a skilled operative, Flynn, she's already a target."

"And they'll want Frankie," Lucy said quietly, staring at an indeterminate point on the floor, "If her father was Rittenhouse, then Rittenhouse will want to keep her – in the family."

"That's what I suspect," Christopher said, "It's most likely what Charles Tyson was tailing her for to begin with. He couldn't just kill them both."

"Can she help Rufus?" Jiya asked, and the room turned to her. Suddenly alert and engaged after months of being, for all intents and purposes, a ghost, Jiya was looking at Agent Christopher with unabashed hope.

"Maybe," Christopher said, "She did serve one tour in Afghanistan in 2003 before her discharge. Some of her military records are sealed and I'm having a hell of a time getting access. That's what I'm waiting on, to confirm her story, but honestly I believe her."

"What was it?" Wyatt asked, wary of any potential red flags in her record or the conditions of her discharge.

"I can't tell you that," Christopher said, "All I can tell you is she received an honorable discharge and the circumstances in question are of no concern to the team if true. What I can verify is that she was a good nurse. Good marks at university and a better-than-average survival rate among her patients."

"So, what, we're going to force her into this fight she didn't ask for?" Flynn challenged, stepping closer to Christopher, looming over her and crossing his arms.

"No, Flynn, we're going to ask her," Agent Christopher replied, meeting his intimidation with the same steel and resolve she always did. She turned to the team. "Listen, I agree the bunker isn't a good long-term solution. I _am_ working on a plan to get her into hiding permanently, but, frankly, I don't have the training or the resources. Homeland Security doesn't handle witness relocations, we don't have the protocols and I'm learning it all from scratch. My best guess, we'll have to relocate her out of the country, and that requires international agreements even WITSEC doesn't have. In short, this is going to take awhile."

"Why don't we just hide her in time?" Connor volunteered, brightly.

"From an organization that also has a time machine?" Flynn pointed out, "And, I'm sorry, please tell me what prior point in American history, in any history, was a great time for a girl to grow up in? For a single mother to survive?"

"I was just helping," Connor snapped back.

"Oh, yes you're such a great help," Flynn derided.

"Guys!" Lucy shouted, "Enough." She glanced between the two men, whiskey-brown eyes brooking no arguments. Flynn felt properly chastised and raised his hands in surrender, backing up to lean against the couch once more.

"If there's any chance she can help, I want her here," Jiya said.

"I know, Jiya, but this has to be a team vote – and it has to be unanimous – whether we tell her about all this and ask her to lead the rescue mission. We'll be revealing everything – the time machine, Rittenhouse, the history of the team…" Christopher glanced momentarily at Flynn, "All of it. She has the right to an informed decision, but just asking for her help gives her information that makes her an even greater threat to Rittenhouse." Everyone in the room was somber, even Jiya who'd thrown all of her time and energy into getting Rufus back. Lucy and Wyatt were looking at one another, only a foot apart, questioning each other silently. Flynn was staring at the toe of his boot, working his jaw in frustration.

"We have to try," Wyatt said, breaking the silence. "There's no guarantee she'll agree, but… this is our best shot."

"You already have my vote," Jiya said, but this time it was clear she understood the weight of her decision, "I say we ask."

"I never wanted to pull another person into this, this…" Connor mused, "But for Rufus, I agree we have to try." That was three, and Agent Christopher glanced between Lucy, pensive and aware of her status as de facto team leader, and Flynn, glaring daggers at the rest of the team. Finally, Lucy broke the silence, looking directly at Flynn.

"Like Christopher said, she's already on their radar," Lucy began, "She needs us, just as much as we need her. If she's going to be chased by these bastards the rest of her life, she deserves the option to fight back." Flynn returned her steady gaze, more torn over this vote than he'd been about any of the monstrous things he'd done in recent memory.

"What will you do if she says 'no?'" Flynn asked, speaking to Agent Christopher but not turning away from Lucy.

"For now, I take her to an alternate black site. I have a location in mind – they can stay there until I secure safe transport… elsewhere." Christopher's answer was hardly reassuring. She may have managed to keep this place a secret, to keep the Rittenhouse elements within HSA in the dark, but when it came down to it, he didn't trust another facility – other men – to protect them. Still, condemning them to this life left a sour taste in his mouth.

 _She deserves the option to fight back_ – Lucy's words echoed in his head. Flynn closed his eyes.

"Ask her."

* * *

 ** _Liability – Lorde_**

 _They say, "You're a little much for me_

 _You're a liability_

 _You're a little much for me"_

 _So they pull back, make other plans_

 _I understand, I'm a liability_

 _Get you wild, make you leave_

 _I'm a little much for everyone_


	6. From Now On

**AN: I swear to god this whole thing isn't going to be one long angst-fest. There's just some obvious shit I have to address about this whole wacked-out situation. Also, a million thanks to my reviewers, Gracielinn, Shelly, and GenuineRisk! I'm so happy you're enjoying the story (and, yes, Gracie, I'm working on Lyatt – and so will Roxanne, trust). Also, should the Flynn/OC portmanteau be Floc?**

 **I don't own Timeless, dagnabbit.**

* * *

"I had no idea," Roxanne said, standing at the control console, staring at the Lifeboat.

"It's a lot to wrap your head around," Flynn agreed. After the team voted, he'd desperately hoped – something. As soon as they'd briefed her on Rittenhouse and the time machines – _machines_ , plural – life had gotten exponentially more dangerous for her. Instinctively, Flynn wanted her to say 'no,' to decline the incalculable risk of their missions. But then, the idea of entrusting her's and her daughter's safety to others, of never knowing where they were or if they were OK – after he'd made the deciding vote to subject them to this – rankled him. Two days had passed, and she hadn't made her decision, yet.

"Well, that too, but I mean…" she struggled to find the words, her mouth still moving in mute frustration.

"You had no idea what Charles was a part of," he supplied, understanding. "Why he killed my family."

"Yes." Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Flynn had seen her standing here, more than once, staring at the infernal machine. She'd wait until Frankie was asleep, taking a nap or gone to bed for the evening, and then Roxanne would just withdraw from everyone to come stand her vigil. Lucy, and even Wyatt, had tried more than once to engage her, to draw her back to the group and encourage her to talk, but she always declined. Jiya mostly ignored her, working around her, and occasionally Connor tried to approach her, but he didn't know what to say. He feared his own machine, maybe even regretted inventing it, though he'd never said as much.

"I don't understand it," she said, finally. She didn't have to elaborate. "I mean, I _comprehend_ it just fine, but I don't…"

"I know," was all Flynn could say. Even after all he'd done, and he harbored no illusions about the horrors he'd committed, even as well as he knew Rittenhouse, he couldn't understand it. To be so convinced of one's moral and intellectual superiority, to be so committed to an idea that you'd slaughter innocents. He understood grief. He understood revenge. He didn't understand that calculated, entitled viciousness.

"You know, I wondered, almost daily where you were," she said, "I barely knew your name, but after seeing you that night, after I understood what happened and went on the run myself… I only knew police and Interpol hadn't found you, and I couldn't help thinking what I would do if…" She couldn't finish that sentence. Instead, she cleared her throat and attempted to sound irreverent, "Of course, I had no idea time travel existed so all my theorizing fell woefully short."

"Came as a hell of a shock to me, too."

"How'd you find out?"

"Lucy." At his response, Roxanne tore her eyes away from the Lifeboat to look at him, perplexed. "It's a long story," he said with a wry smile.

"Right," was all she said, and they were silent together for several minutes. Flynn wondered if he should walk away, leave her to her thoughts, but there was a tension in her, a feeling that there was more on her mind. Finally, she spoke with a raw, gravelly whisper, "I'm so sorry."

Flynn opened his mouth to retort, but she shook her head, "I'm sorry for what happened, not about Charles, I know that wasn't my fault, but I'm so sorry it happened to you, no matter…" Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat, "No matter who did it. And I'm so sorry I didn't say anything. That I let them keep hunting you when I knew…" That final sentence came out in a flood, and against his better judgment, Flynn reached for her had, gripping it tightly. He was immeasurably relieved when she didn't pull away, when instead she clutched his hand like a lifeline.

"You did the right thing," he insisted, moving to face her, to stand between her and that damned time machine, "They knew, Roxanne. My house was shot all to hell, they had to have dug rounds from six separate weapons out of the walls, they _knew_ it was a hit. And they hid it from everyone. Rittenhouse is everywhere, including the police. They managed to fool the NSA and FBI. They made damn sure the evidence never leaked beyond anyone who could contain it. If you had come forward…"

"But I didn't know that," she interrupted. He'd resisted looking too closely at her until now, but he found himself caught in her unwavering gaze. Dark brown eyes, clear and depthless, held him fast like she was trying to communicate the entirely of her guilt and grief through sheer will, "I didn't know about Rittenhouse, I didn't know about their power – their reach. I could have sought witness protection, but I disappeared and I stayed quiet about an innocent man framed for his family's murder because I wasn't willing to risk my own. Because I was selfish."

"Good," Flynn bit out through clinched teeth. He grabbed her upper arm with his free hand. "I have done terrible things – I went on a killing spree across three centuries to stop these bastards, to prevent them hurting my girls or anyone else, and you getting yourself killed, getting your daughter killed, _that_ would have been selfish and stupid. I dug my own grave, but I never, never would have wanted that sacrifice from you or anyone." For a moment, she couldn't speak, only searched his face, and he understood it was ultimately pointless. Nothing he said could lift this weight off her.

* * *

The words had been on the tip of her tongue for days. Four years ago she'd thought about going to the authorities, seriously considered approaching the FBI, to tell them they were hunting the wrong man and to beg for witness protection. Of course, now she knew it would have been suicide, but she hadn't then. Day after day she'd made the conscious decision not to come forward, and as the days ran together and the weeks built up into months it had grown easier, more automatic to justify her silence. And then she'd seen him again. And then she'd learned what horror his life had become after that night.

She'd been grateful when he'd taken her hand, anchored her here in the maelstrom of her own guilt and fear and uncertainty. Now, she studied him, the stern set of his mouth and unshakable green eyes and complete belief in every word he spoke. And it didn't matter. As soon as Agent Christopher had given her the news – briefing her in intricate detail on Rittenhouse and the time machine and the circumstances that had brought the team to this bunker, that had brought bitter enemies together – she'd had a sick feeling in her stomach. Suddenly knowing how close she and Frankie had been to death, and knowing Christopher had to be telling her all this for a reason.

After laying out their problem, and their request, Christopher had introduced her to the team properly. They'd been warm and wonderful in spite of everything they'd been through. All except Flynn. The man who'd inadvertently rescued her and her daughter, and around whom she centered so much guilt and now gratitude, hadn't said a word. She was already concerned on several fronts – she had a child to see to, she hadn't worked as a nurse in over a decade – but to suspect that it would be a trial for him to work with her, that her presence might actually harm the team and decrease the likelihood of their mission succeeding…

Two days she'd waited to make her decision. Two days of everyone clearly acting on their best behavior, trying to convince her to stay, but she couldn't shake the belief that one of them didn't want her here. And she hadn't known how to broach the subject until tonight when he'd approached her.

After a moment, recognition lit his face. He knew – knew she wasn't going to just forgive herself on his word. He let go her hand, and for a moment her heart stopped, terrified to be left unmoored and knowing with sinking certainty that he witnessed her guilt and was finally seeing her through that same shameful lens, until he pulled her roughly into his arms. She was shocked beyond words, her hands frozen at her side and her cheek pressed against his dark wool sweater, until he lay his chin against the top of her head and, involuntarily, her arms lifted to wrap around his waist as she buried her face into the plush cable knitting.

"Please, don't make this decision because you feel obligated," he said, and his voice was dead certain, steadying her, even as she clung more tightly, "You don't owe me anything – you don't owe us anything." Her throat grew raw and tears welled up in her eyes. "But know if you do this, I– Wyatt and I will do everything in our power to protect you. To make sure you make it home to your little girl."

"You can't promise that," she breathed, and it was a bitter truth that hung between them.

"No, but I know you're safer with– with _us_ than with anyone." There was resolve in his voice, as if a decision had been made, and it gave her hope despite herself. Maybe she could do this. Maybe this wasn't madness. At least, not any madder than it already was. She began to relax, to notice his thumb stroking a steady rhythm along her shoulder blade. She let herself lean against him.

"Can we stop them?" she asked, and she felt odd asking it. Why was that her question? "If I help you, can you stop them?"

"We'll sure as hell have a better shot."

* * *

Roxanne snuck quietly into her borrowed quarters, grateful to see Frankie still asleep as the light from the corridor spilled inside. She shut the door as softly as she could and dug around in the dark for her pajamas. After she changed, she sat in that musty old reception chair, listening to the soft breathing of her daughter, her whole world, laying on that cramped army bunk. Her thoughts and emotions were in upheaval. Not that they'd ever properly settled down since the night of the shooting, but tonight it was sharper, more visceral. She stood on the threshold of the most monumental decision of her life, and that was a life full of pivotal decisions.

She'd said what she needed to say. That was a relief. And she'd come to the conclusion that Garcia Flynn, already an obvious outlier in this group, had ultimately decided to support her inclusion on this mission. Perhaps she understood better, now, why he'd seemed against it – and it wasn't discomfort with having the wife of his family's murderer on the team. But she still had to weigh the two underlying issues she'd begun with. How could she be certain she'd be of any use when she hadn't touched a patient, never mind a trauma patient, in 15 years? How could she justify taking this risk when she was all Frankie had in the world?

Alternately, how could she risk going into hiding again now that she knew what hunted her? How could she justify walking away from the opportunity to eliminate such a powerful threat to so many people? She'd spent most of her life searching for a way to fight the good fight, to defend the rights and dignity of her fellow human beings, and many of her choices had been a mistake. It might have made her cynical, but that wasn't in her nature. Some part of her, some profoundly foolish part, insisted it was possible. Possible to fight the good fight – and win. And that small but powerful instinct was urging her to jump in.

And through the middle of all this now ran a new and confounding tangle of emotions. Roxanne hadn't been… _unaffected_ by that embrace, by even the grip of his hand on hers. Her immediate response had been ease, even relief at the solidness of his presence. He'd provided a fixed point just when she needed it, and she was grateful. But she'd also spent the last four years on the run. Four years avoiding any connection or any relationship – platonic or romantic – that might expose her. She hadn't touched any man, certainly hadn't been embraced by one, in four years and by any objective estimation Garcia Flynn was one hell of man.

At least, that was the narrative she wove for herself, sitting in the dark, propped forward with her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands, concentrating on her own breathing to calm her heartbeat and settle her mind. She was battling the doggedly persistent sensory memory of his arms wrapped around her, of the rise and fall of his chest beneath that wool sweater, of the scent of Irish Spring and _him_ which she'd immediately recognized after sleeping in his bed these last few nights. It was all overwhelming and decidedly inappropriate.

It was no fault of his, he'd been completely respectful, even professional, in his compassion. She was just keyed up, but if she meant to do this, if she meant to help them, she had to disconnect her own longing for human connection from this unusually perceptive and empathetic man. She needed internal boundaries, and she needed to foster deeper relationships, real friendships, with the whole team. That was, she assured herself, the only way to diffuse the potency of this response in future.

Finally, Roxanne rose from the chair and approached the bunk, hesitating a moment as she both anticipated and dreaded his scent on the pillow. Steeling herself, she gently shift Frankie closer to the wall, the little girl mumbling and stretching her limbs briefly but remaining fast asleep, and eased herself between the sheets, curling protectively around her little girl. Hopefully, sleep would make things clearer, bring her to a decision she could live with.

In the morning, Roxanne stretched and sat up. Her eyes adjusted reluctantly to the glow of corridor lights shining through the frosted windows along the wall opposite the bunk. She rose from the bed, the concrete cold beneath her feet as she reminded herself to wear socks to bed for the umpteenth time, and crossed to the table where she'd set the burner phone she'd been provided with – a phone with only one number in it.

The phone rang only twice before Agent Christopher picked up.

"Hi, Agent Christopher, it's Roxanne. I decided… I'm in."

* * *

 ** _From Now On – Mandolin Orange_**

 _There's an awful lonesome feelin'_

 _Concealed within our past_

 _But the future holds my reasons_

 _There'll be no more looking back_

 _From now on_


	7. My Silver Lining

**AN: I know it's taken an excruciatingly long time to get here, but when you're introducing a whole new character to an existing team, you can't just shoe-horn them in there. I mean, you _can_ , but the results suck. In my defense, those first three chapters were short-ish.**

 **I don't own Timeless.**

* * *

Lucy was sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of tea at her fingertips as she paged through a new history text. She'd devoted an enormous amount of time to studying 1880's San Francisco in preparation for they day they could return for Rufus. The last two days she'd been on edge, hoping against hope their new resident would agree to help – even if only for this mission. Flynn hadn't been entirely wrong, Lucy was feeling a little – a lot – more alone with Rufus gone and Jiya lost in her work. But even if Roxanne didn't ultimately stay, Lucy hoped she could get Jiya back. That once Rufus returned – alive – Jiya would drop the mania that had been driving her for nearly a year.

When Wyatt walked in, still in pajama bottoms and a gray Army T-shirt, Lucy gave him a momentary smile in greeting before returning to her book.

"That the new Tom Clancy?" Wyatt asked as he poured himself a mug of coffee. Lucy breathed a laugh.

"We need to work on your literary repertoire."

"We?" Wyatt said as he sat down across from her, that same joking-but-actually-hopeful tone he'd been using since the night he'd told her he loved her. One honest, forthright declaration had been followed by these same prodding, suggestive comments. If he was expecting her to take the lead, to validate these half-hearted efforts, he was sorely mistaken.

"I'm sure Flynn could recommend something a little more – diverse." If she was being honest with herself, Lucy had come to enjoy needling him with his own jealousy. It was Wyatt's biggest flaw and as for Flynn, well, he was happy to oblige. Wyatt wisely declined to respond, taking a sip of his coffee with roll of his eyes. Maybe he was growing up after all.

"It's been a couple days, now," Wyatt said, changing the subject as he leaned back in his chair, "What do you think the holdup is?" Lucy didn't need him to elaborate, it was the one topic on everyone's mind.

"It's a big decision," Lucy shrugged, leaning back once she realized she wouldn't be continuing with her research just now and meeting his assessing look. In spite of herself, those unreal blue eyes still set her stomach fluttering, but she didn't flinch, didn't let her gaze waver. She was damn proud of herself for that.

"I know," he responded, "It's just – I still have questions."

"About her record?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, I trust Agent Christopher, but I also know the service. I know how much bullshit soldiers get way with and if there's anything _on_ her record there had to be a dozen other things she never got written up for."

"Maybe that's true for most soldiers, but I suspect the standards are a little stricter for women."

"Everyone has the same rules," Wyatt dismissed.

"And you think those rules have always been applied equally?" Lucy asked, and as Wyatt opened his mouth to argue, she cut him off, "Listen I don't want to get into a debate about sexist military practices. We don't know the circumstances, maybe… maybe it wasn't even something she did. Maybe it was something she was involved in that was classified or maybe it was something that happened to her. Honestly, I just have a feeling about her. I… I trust her."

"Like you trust Flynn?" He just couldn't resist, could he?

"Once it was appropriate, yes," she said, confident that her evolving attitude toward their former enemy had been born out by his behavior, "And like I trusted you before I really knew you. Like I trusted Rufus and Agent Christopher." Lucy had her flaws, she knew, but no one could shame her for her judgments in character. She'd begun to forgive herself for not seeing what her mom was – no one could have suspected that magnitude of subversion, especially not from a loving, dedicated (if demanding) parent. Trusting Carol Preston wasn't Lucy's fault.

"I hope you're right," Wyatt, wisely, backed down. "Do you think she can help?" Lucy's heart gave a little lurch at that. Sometimes she forgot how much she missed Rufus.

"I hope so," she said softly.

Just then, Frankie came careening into the room, full speed, followed closely by Roxanne. The child spotted Lucy immediately and ran up to her. The pair of them had become fast friends, and Lucy scooped the girl up onto her lap without even thinking. Roxanne, also in pajamas with a long, spring green cardigan wrapped around her, smiled at the sight. Lucy saw immediately the woman hadn't looked so at ease since she arrived.

"Good morning," Lucy greeted, "There's hot water still in the kettle."

"Oh, thank you," Roxanne said with genuine enthusiasm.

"Mommy says we get to stay here," Frankie informed, squirming on Lucy's lap to look up at her with those giant sea-blue eyes. Lucy's heart skipped a beat, and she noticed Wyatt's eyebrows shoot up as he turned in his chair to face the woman at the counter. Roxanne flushed a little and shook her head as she flipped through the availability of tea bags.

"I uh, was hoping to at least get my tea ready, but…" she said, tearing open a bag and looking sheepishly at Lucy's hopeful face and Wyatt's look of… guarded interest. "I want to help. At least on this mission if not…" She shrugged, then, and poured her water. Lucy's eyes started to well up, and she eased Frankie to the floor before rushing over to the counter and giving the very startled Roxanne a giant hug.

"Thank you," Lucy whispered, and despite her feelings on being hugged by new people, that embrace was so genuine and heartfelt Roxanne gave in and hugged her back. "I was trying so hard not to be weird about it." Roxanne laughed.

"I could tell," she replied, and Lucy finally loosened her grip. They noticed, then, that Wyatt had stood up and joined them. He held out a hand and offered his most encouraging smile.

"Welcome to the team."

* * *

"Well, I guess we may as well dive right in," Roxanne said. Agent Christopher had arrived around noon and gathered everyone in the lounge area. Blessedly, she'd had the foresight to bring another agent who was currently babysitting Frankie. No one really wanted her hearing about time travel and gunfire and fatal injuries.

"Mind you, in the Army I never led a mission, I was usually just along for the ride. So, this, being in charge, this is new to me."

"You'll do just fine," Wyatt nodded, and Lucy, sitting next to him on the couch, gave him an appreciative glance. Apparently, now that the decision was made, he'd set himself to support the mission no matter his doubts.

"Thanks," she replied earnestly, "Now, the first thing is – and this will likely be the hardest part – I need to know exactly how your friend died. Not this second, just know that I'm going to need as much detail as possible from the people who were nearest to him when he…"

"That would be me," Jiya said firmly, "And Wyatt."

"OK, it's going to take time to prepare, but both of you need to spend the next couple days thinking about everything that happened. Write it down if you have to. I know he was shot but the closest you can come to where exactly the bullet entered, how long he stayed conscious – every little detail helps." Roxanne looked at them with searching eyes, and they both nodded.

"OK, second, if this wound was so fatal you couldn't get him out of there in time to reach the lifeboat and get him home, then stabilizing and transporting him are our biggest challenges. Time is our enemy," she paused, realizing what she'd said with a sideways smile while the gathered team members shared a wry chuckle. The thrum of new optimism gave them renewed flexibility to laugh about their predicament for the first time in ages.

"We have to plan everything to the letter," Roxanne concluded. "Supplies, landing site, route of travel, everything. I'll need to train each of you on several components of triage care, but we have – and I can't stress this enough – we _have_ to have a surgical team and a clean, stocked operating room ready."

"We will," Agent Christopher assured, and the others all looked at each other. Where in the bunker were they going to created a sterile operating suite?

"Perfect," Roxanne said, relieved, "The name of the game is stabilize and move. We can't save him – _I_ can't save him. In fact, we still might lose him en route, but if we can keep oxygen flowing and his heart pumping until we reach the surgical team – if we can prevent brain death – he _might_ have a chance." The team was silent a moment, but the room was vibrating with suppressed hope. Lucy reached out and grabbed Wyatt's hand.

"We have an advantage I never had on the battlefield," Roxanne said finally, looking at each of them in turn. "In Afghanistan, every wound was a surprise, every situation was different and unexpected. There are things we can control, here, but I can't emphasize enough how risky this is. No matter how much information you give me, I wasn't there. I can't prepare for every contingency." She gave them a moment to soak that in.

"I won't lie to you about that, but I promise I will do everything I can to get your friend home. And in spite of the odds, I need–" her voice broke a moment." I need all of you to believe – in yourselves, in each other – that we will save him. It sounds corny and hokey, but I need you to trust me."

"It doesn't sound corny at all," Lucy said.

"Right," Roxanne smiled. Clearly this was a group who knew about foolish, stubborn optimism. "Uh, how long before the… the time machine…"

"It's ready," Jiya interrupted.

"Jiya…" Connor admonished.

"I said it's ready." The young woman was firm, staring her mentor and former boss down like it was a personal challenge.

"We have to run simulations. The diagnostics…"

"Look, first aid training and mission planning are going to take a couple weeks, at least," Roxanne interjected. "It's great, wonderful news that the machine will be ready, but we couldn't leave today even if we wanted to. There is time to double-check, to run simulations, maybe even a test flight." Her reminder forestalled further argument, but Jiya still looked irritated – offended, even – at Connor's hesitation.

"Speaking of the lifeboat," Flynn began, chiming in for the first time. He'd looked relieved when he'd learned she was accepting the mission, and that alone had given Roxanne more confidence. "You said transportation is critical and it's– it's a rough ride."

"How so?"

"Nausea, disorientation," Wyatt chimed in, "It's a quick trip, so it shouldn't add much to our transportation time, but it feels like getting your bell rung after a rollercoaster ride."

"Charming, I really look forward to it," Roxanne said dryly.

"It's also a little cramped," Flynn added, "I'm guessing we'll need to have him on a backbaord."

"I think a Stokes basket would be better, if the ride's so rough, but yes," Roxanne said. At their quizzical looks, she continued, "It's a litter – a backboard with rails and padding to keep the patient secure while they're being moved. How many people does the machine allow?"

"Four," Flynn said, "but Wyatt and I can stay behind when we get him on board, and you can pick us up later."

"I think," Agent Christopher said, "The best thing we can do is send you on a trip. You can judge for yourself how severe the turbulence is, and you can gauge the best way to secure the litter."

"W-where?" Roxanne asked, unable to keep that little hesitation from her voice, but swallowing her immediate anxiety as best she could and putting on a brave face.

"Well, I suppose that's up to you. We don't want to send you on a Rittenhouse mission, but you need to know what you're in for. We need a low-risk trip so you can get your… time legs. Connor, Jiya, are you confident the ship's regular functions are good to go?" Christopher asked. Connor glanced at Jiya, not wanting to rile her up again.

"Yes, a non-duplicative trip will be just fine," Connor assured.

"Good. Roxanne, take the night to think of something and we'll plan a mission for tomorrow morning."

"Will do," she responded with entirely more confidence than she felt. Agent Christopher dismissed them all, and Roxanne left to retrieve Frankie. She'd just made it to the corridor when she felt a hand on the curve of her shoulder and her heart skipped a beat.

"Hey," Flynn said as she turned to face him. He was speaking low, trying to make sure the others wouldn't overhear. "It's going to be fine."

"No, I know," she said with more confidence than she felt, and his look told her he saw all her bullshit.

"Listen, I've traveled in both machines. The Lifeboat's a little rough, but Jiya is brilliant and she's an excellent pilot," he continued despite her attempted bluff, "Don't tell her I said that, by the way." Roxanne had to laugh at that.

"You're secret's safe with me, tough guy." She said it so dismissively it struck him, instantly, how differently she thought of him. Then again, he'd never shot at her. He wanted to correct her, to tell her what a vicious animal he truly was, but he couldn't.

"It should be an easy trip," he said, instead. "And I'll be going with you, just in case. No Rittenhouse, no chasing, no shooting. You'll have…" he smiled as he realized what he was about to say, "all the time in the world. Just pick something good. Something you really want to see."

"Sounds irresponsible," she said casually, but he grinned, green eyes alight.

"Sounds like you should try that more often."

* * *

"Hey, Lucy," Roxanne walked into the kitchen the next morning, glad the resident historian was already there.

"Good morning," Lucy greeted brightly, "Tea?"

"Yes, please," she replied, meeting the other woman at the counter, "Listen, I had a question I hoped you could help me with."

"Of course!" Lucy said, opening another tea packet and pulling a mug from the cupboard. "Have you decided where you want to go?" Roxanne chewed her lip a moment, feeling like she was 10 years old again.

"Is there any way we could try to meet… Amelia Earhart?" she asked, bashful for the cliche of it as much as the frivolousness. Lucy stopped what she was doing and turned to her with a small, thoughtful smile. She'd opened her mouth to speak, to reassure the clearly hesitant woman this was not a silly request, when comprehension lit her face and she grinned wider.

"I know just the when."

* * *

 ** _My Silver Lining – First Aid Kit_**

 _I've woken up in a hotel room_

 _My worries as big as the moon_

 _Having no idea who or what or where I am_

 _Something good comes with the bad_

 _A song's never just sad_

 _There's hope, there's a silver lining_

 _Show me my silver lining_


End file.
